Today is gonna be the Day
by PassionsInsanity
Summary: Stand alone. Part of the story of my TW character Morgan 'Jazz' Bishop. This is how Bosco and Jazz met and a little background on her. Becoming a bit AU.


"Today is gonna be the day  
That they're gonna throw it back to you  
By now you should've somehow  
Realized what you gotta do  
I don't believe that anybody  
Feels the way I do about you now

Backbeat the word was on the street  
That the fire in your heart is out  
I'm sure you've heard it all before  
But you never really had a doubt  
I don't believe that anybody feels  
The way I do about you now

And all the roads we have to walk along are winding  
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding  
There are many things that I would  
Like to say to you  
I don't know how"

Oasis – Wonderwall

I have a thing for Cuban music. There's something about it that I just particularly love. It's the flirty, funky beat with that taste of erotic ecstasy. Same goes for jazz. Jazz is just different, it has a soul, an unique combination of drama and unpredicted peaks. They both represent 'life' in some sort of way to me. Plus Cuban music is just looks pretty, with exquisite Latina girls dancing around half-naked but still gorgeous, and wavering, swirling dresses on the beat of the music.

It's kinda weird, really. I have, as far as I know, no ties to the Cuban culture. My grandparents were Irish, immigrating to the United States back in nineteen-twenty. My grandmother was twenty-five, married my grandfather when she just turned eighteen. I was told that she said it was true love. After my grandfather died in the Second World War, he was forty-four and a Lieutenant Commander in the Navy, I read the letters that my grandmother and he exchanged when he was on missions. If I would found a guy like him, I'd throw my believes of relationships and marriage in the nearest trash can I could find and marry him. I don't believe in true love, not even after reading their letters, but they had this connection that persuaded me into believing that there was some truth in love other than deceivement and lies.

I loved my grandparents. They were good to me and kind. On Sunday's grandma and I baked cookies, grandpa took me out fishing. Grandma took me to the shooting range, much to my grandfather's dismay. Then again, he took me to boxing games. I don't know which was worse. But I loved both of it and every second I was with them. She died in nineteen-ninety-four. Heart failure. She just turned ninety-five. I was heartbroken. As far as I can be.

I brought flowers to her grave every Sunday, after church. I feel that I'm obliged to go to church. I swear and curse enough in a week not to receive any kind of redemption, but my grandparents always told me that going was good enough. I guess God didn't agree. My life has been anything but that of any ordinary schoolgirl. The boxing games taught me to fight, even when down, and to never give up. The trips to the shooting range taught me how to take care of myself. I don't see violence as an answer, but it sure makes things a hell of a lot easier for me.

It was cold. Despite my nice, warm police jacket, I still shiver whenever a cold hand grabs my neck. Swersky had threatened to take away the radiator we placed next to the door if I kept using it while the windows were open. I don't want my guys to sit here in the cold like I did, so I politely obey. I refuse to smoke outside just because people in fancy suits and tight haircuts tell me so. I smoke inside. Whenever and wherever I want to. My guys love me, but during the cold winter times, they love me a little less.

"Christ, it's cold in here."

And there he was. My partner from heaven. I cared for him deeply, even though that's something I normally don't do. Cristiano Valentin. I called him Milo. I have the tendency to call people differently than the already established nicknames. 'Vally' was his regular nickname, but he answered to Milo because I called him that. I was the only one to call him and he only listened to the name when the letters escaped my lips, none else's. His parents had immigrated from Italy to the States just before the Second World War, being Jewish, they feared for their lives. His mother was great. Once a month we'd go to her house for an enormous dinner with all the typical Italian food and handmade, freshly baked bread. I recognize a lot of Giuseppa in Miles. She's that kind, gentle, extraordinary mother that raised her children to be right and do good. He once told me that was the reason he joined the force. To be right and do good. I never told him my reasons. I don't think he'd believe me either.

My eyes wander over his face. He was one of the few man blessed with a strong jaw line and gorgeous cheekbones. Of course, being Italian, he had the darkest brown eyes that made you sink in them and you'd melt whenever he looked at you. But his smile was the best part of him, better than the angelic expression and his delicious, muscled, 'making you drool' type of body. He was generous, gracious and honest. Despite his rough and tough exterior, he was a kindhearted man. Good to those that treated him good, the devil to those that didn't.

I inhale the polluting smoke and let it destroy my lungs as I raise my hand shortly to greet him. I am rapidly typing away, wanting to push away as much paperwork as I could before breakfast. Milo sat down behind his desk, which was opposite of mine, his back to the door, putting down a cup of steaming hot coffee before me.

"Oh, God bless you."

He flashes that precious smile as he leans back in his chair.

"What's on the agenda today?"

I finish my sentence of the ultimately boring report I had to write about a raid last week (Swersky would bust my balls if I didn't turn it in today). Then I took a sip of my coffee, nearly burning my lips, causing Milo to smile in the progress. As I suck my on cigarette again and exhaled, I turn to him.

"Foxy called in early, he's not coming today. Something about his mother, I think she's sick again. I swear, it's a miracle she's still standing with her medical history-"  
"Don't talk about people's mothers like that."  
"I kindly asked Looey to finally finish his damn paperwork otherwise Swersky will throw me in lockup until it's all finished."  
"Ah, finally, Swersky is chasing you on the paperwork matter."  
"Shut up."  
"So we're a man down."

I nod while putting my cigarette out. I grab the red and white box to for another and offer one to my partner. He gratefully takes one and lights it.

"You're mom will kill you if she finds out, you know."  
"Oh, she knows."  
"I knew it, aliens do exist, what do you want from me, green yellow-eyed monster?!"  
"Screw you."  
"So she didn't really kill you."  
"No. She chopped off my balls though."

I laugh. Heartily. He was the only one that could make me laugh like that.

"Like you need them."  
"I want kids when I'm old."  
"I'll lend you some sperm."

A blue pen is playfully thrown at my head and we both smile. Early mornings were the best. It held something childish in it. It was like the dawn before our eyes opened and our memories kicked in, knowing the things that we had seen and the images that haunted us in our sleep. I've known Milo for seven years. We served in Afghanistan for a year together, where we met in a foxhole. We both joined the police academy in nineteen-ninety-nine and left a year prior to graduation. After we returned, we successfully finished and have been partners ever since.

Early mornings represented the innocence of the world. It was stupid, really. We both knew crime never slept, awful things happened ever minute and yet mornings somehow made us forget that. We save all our energy until it's time to get dressed and get to work. I noticed Lieutenant Swersky walking past our room. Despite the fact that I'm not usually nice to the man, he's someone I respect. I don't let him know though, I'm snappy and arrogant whenever I'm talking to him and never really follow his orders, but he's the man I would go to if I find myself in trouble that I can't resolve myself. A little voice in my head always says that he knows, but I live in the ignorance that he doesn't. It makes me sleep at night.

"I'll go see if Swersky has something for me to fill up the gap."

Milo nods and I exit the room, forgetting to put out my cigarette.

"Are you smoking in my precinct?"

Busted.

"Yes sir. Sorry sir."

I had approached him and of course, he heard me coming. As quickly but elegantly as I could, I put the cigarette out on the floor and picked up the bud.

"Have you finished your paperwork?"  
"Not yet, but I'm working on it."  
"I want if before noon."  
"Okay."

Swersky, a rather short and chubby but impressive man, turns abruptly and prepares himself to leave. As if I only walked to him to let him know I wasn't done with my paperwork yet.

"Lieu, Foxy called in with a family emergency, so I'm one man short."  
"Foxy?"

Foxy's real name was George McKenzie, or Mac, as everybody else called him. He's a weird looking fella' despite his small and skinny exterior. Short, tanned, through and through New Yorker and somewhat aggressive. Still, he was a genius. He arranged all the paperwork I needed to do things that were probably not legal, but because of his bureaucracy skills, everything was possible. Brown hair, brown eyes, perfect teeth and as fierce as a lion. Cunning, too. Hence the nickname.

He joined the Special Crime and Protection Unit, or the Special Crazy People Unit as I liked to call it, shortly after I had set it up. I had close contacts with the F.B.I. and the SCPU therefore worked close with the black suited broomsticks. Swersky wasn't all too happy about the proposal and even less happy when he heard I had the green light, but he had been supportive once he saw the results, rates and numbers. The SCPU was a department that basically had the same M.O. as Anti-Crime, only we had a little more clearance, our field of expertise was wider and we had a bigger sandbox to play in.

Looey was the last to join, after I lost Chimba, a Mexican guy that I'd like to believe, was even crazier than I was. He died of cancer a year after the program started. Despite his recklessness, eagerness, hotheadedness and mutual disrespect to orders, he was a good cop and a great friend.

Lauren 'Looey' or 'Jack' Jacobs was young and inexperienced when I asked him to join. But that rookie thing brings a lot of good things. He was fresh, so easily to form, eager as a young dog and smart. That and he could shoot the wings of a fly. He beat me three out of five games. I put him behind a desk for a week because I couldn't process the idea of him being a better shot.

"Mac."  
"His mother?"  
"Uhu. Anyway, I was hoping that you could spare someone. I need a fourth man."  
"Why? Anything special you're doing today?"  
"I hope that I'll finally bust that heroine ring today."  
"How come you haven't told me that before?"  
"I'm telling you now."  
"Would you have told me if I hadn't asked?"  
"Last minute, probably."  
"You do not move without notifying me, got that? Last thing I need is picking up bits and pieces of your ass while I got downtown breathing down on me."

He nuances ever word while pointing his finger at me. I know the look he's got on his face. It means thunder, it means storm. I better play nice or he'll make my life a living hell the next few weeks.

"Yes sir."  
"Anyone particular in mind?"  
"Someone with experience. I was thinking Boscore-something."  
"Boscorelli?"  
"That's him. He's done some time with Anti-Crime, right?"  
"I'll see what I can do."  
"Thank you."

When I just turned five, I witnessed a bank robbery. The perp ran right past me, chased by two police officers whom caught him a mere five feet away from me. I was in awe with their speed and accuracy, the way they slipped the cuffs on him and put him away in the police car that arrived a minute later, followed by the smell of burnt tires. I still heard the piercing siren a week later. It was a peep that never left my head, powerful, mighty, searing sirens. It nestled inside my heart, combined with the love for the uniform the moment I laid eyes on it, made me decide a second after they had left that I wanted to be a cop.

People say you have to be born for the job. It's something that you have to feel, it has to grab you, otherwise you will be too easily seduced by the easiness of corruption. I may not do things by the book, I may do it my way and only my way, I may have an attitude and be arrogant, I may lie to get to a certain point or to save my ass, but I love my work. I was made for it. The thought of corruption poison my mind and makes me sick to the stomach. I've heard my former lieutenant say it, only once. _'She's the best worst cop you can think of. But she's not corrupt. I vouch for her.'_ Two weeks later, he got shot and died in the hospital. I never did like hospitals.

The sound of knuckles knocking on wood enters my head and it takes me a couple of seconds to realise that someone is knocking on the doorpost. None of my guys knocks, usually everybody walks in unannounced. I don't think I ever knock. Milo meets my eyes with the same surprised look and we both turn to look at the person that was so kind enough to knock before entering.

He's kind of short and muscledly skinny, his attitude makes him grow taller. Short hair, brown eyes, the same strong jaw line Milo has. A look in his eyes that says 'You can't get me'. Independent. Strong. I immediately know that I like him and abruptly realise that that would probably do me know good. Milo and I have our encounters, our steamy nights in the dark that are kept secret. I liked Milo the minute I laid my eyes on him. I know not to mess with the figure standing in the doorway, but I can't help to think how to do it anyway. Involuntary, my mind races to the events that might happen. Hot, casual, pointless sex in the late hours of the night.

"You requested me, m'am?"  
"Please, for your own sake, don't call her m'am. Call her sir if you feel the need to."

I smack Milo's head and lean against his desk.

"You're Boscorelli?"  
"That's me."  
"Sergeant Bishop, you can call me that, sir or simply Jazz. Whatever suits you."  
"Milo Valentino."

Looey enters the room, eyeing the outsider standing in the middle of the room, noticing Milo's and my odd and awkward expressions.

"Boscorelli, right?"  
"Yeah."

He tilts his head back slightly as he answers. I watch his face form into an expression of recognition.

"Jacobs?"  
"That's right."

The two man smile and exchange handshakes. For an Italian, Boscorelli is rather white and Looey's black skin distinct itself from Bosco's.

"You two know each other?"

Both men turn to look at me.

"We met at Hudson's Party, two years ago."  
"Aint that nice. If you're done with the kissing and sweet hellos, I'm hungry and need to eat. Looey, you ride with him today. Let's go."

Milo jumps up and grabs his jacket, which was thrown next to his desk as he came in. He makes a comment about breakfast that I choose to ignore and follows me to the exit of the fifty-five precinct, a home to me. From the reflection in the windows, I can see Looey and Bosco exchanging some words were Looey shrugs his massive shoulders and Bosco, well, he looks rather lost and intimidated.

I don't have many rules, mostly because I rarely follow any, but one of my rules is that I drive and I'm always the first. Milo gave up the point of arguing with me after a year and a half, however, he still makes the casual remarks. Today, we chat about the birds and the bees, Bosco is more than once haphazardly mentioned. I keep an eye on Looey and Bosco, sitting in the dark green Chevy behind us, in the rear view mirror. A couple of months ago, I realised that I didn't think when driving to Mirrie's. It both startled as fascinated me. Amazing what the autopilot of the human mind can do. The subconsciousness of man is much more than we think it is. It would explain a lot of things. Then again, it raises as much questions as it answers.

It would explain why I've been suffering from insomnia since nine-eleven. Something, a bug, a cyst, must have snuggled itself inside my brain and was eating a part that only my subconciousness knew about. That's one question answered. Then there's the question; what is it? What is it that is troubling my subconscioucness so dearly, that it gives me turning, aching, trembling and sleepless nights? When arresting a perp, it gives me satisfaction, another bad guy off the streets, someone paying for his deeds because, in the end, we all pay a certain price. Another questions answered. Another question popping up. If it feels so right and so good, then why is there that little, subconscious voice that tells me that they way I did it, was not so right and so good. The end justifies the means. Right?

"I think you should ride with Boscorelli today."

His comment breaks through my train of thoughts and shakes me wide awake. I look at him as I pull up in front of my favourite restaurant.

"Why?"  
"He's the new guy. You always ride with the new guy."  
"He's not the new guy. He's the sub."  
"Still, I think you should ride with him today."  
"Why?"  
"Because we're busting this big ass heroine ring. We need things to go right. No mistakes."  
"You don't think that Looey can do it?"  
"That's not the point. I'm just saying that this is a big case. We've been working on it for three months. I don't want any mistakes."  
"You think he can't handle it?"  
"You always speak highly of Cruz. I'm sure that he must be good if he has been playing with Cruz on the playground."  
"I don't get it."  
"I don't want any screw ups. What's so hard to understand about that simple fact?"  
"I don't know. Perhaps the fact that the guys we're hopefully arresting today are the guys that your sister bought her dope from thus are partly responsible for her death."

Strike. Milo looks at me, his dark eyes widened, not in fear, not even in surprise, but in total exposion. A deer caught in headlights.

"I know everything. Well, not everything. I know what's going on on my streets. I know what's going on with my guys."  
"I want this guy behind bars."  
"I want my food."

Milo nods and steps out of the car. Immediately, he hand goes down to his pocket and hungry fingers search for a small, cardboard box that read 'Smoking kills'. I love the warning signs on those packs. When they first started putting them on the red and white paper boxes, I made it my new hobby to collect them all. I followed his lead, pulling out a cigarette, lit it and stepped out of the car.

At police departments, you have something called 'roll call'. It's just a fancy word for checking if everybody is present and then handing out assignments. In Swersky's case, it also meant adding futile, worthless warnings to keep your eyes and ears open. By all means return back to the house in one piece because we were not in the mood for any more paperwork. Especially not when it involved the death of a cop, it takes you hours to finish.

In the seven minus one year in the military I've worked as a cop, I've never lost a guy. Besides my Mexican, but he was not killed on duty. People around me have but I've been blessed to not have to experience those dark days. Glenny Hobart was a friend I knew well, but he wasn't one of my guys. Not even during nine-eleven. Sure, people that I knew, perhaps even care about, died. But never one of my guys. I'd rather catch that bullet that was meant to take their lives than to have one of my guys get killed.

Roll call, in my case, meant gathering my sorry excuse for a team and go for a nice breakfast at Mirrie's. It meant chatting and talking while eating, the guys making it a game to talk as many times as they could with their mouths full. It's rather disgusting, but people consider me a guy so I guess I'm the odd one.

Entering the ridiculously decorated and organized 'all the day, ready for eating' restaurant, I immediately spot the overweighed boss, Mario. He notices me as well and moves to our regular seat. I hear Looey explain the reason why where here to 'the sub'.

"Darling! How are you?"  
"Same as yesterday Mir."

Mario smiles at me, his chubby chin bouncing as he does it. When I first heard that he had seven kids, and those kids must come from somewhere, they don't just drop out of the sky like I used to believe, my mouth fell wide open. Sure, he was a good guy, fat but kind heart, but to imagine that there is a woman that fell in love with him just amazes me. And they're not adopted, each and every one of his kids looks just like him.

"Same as usual?"

As Mario let his eyes wander over my team, he suddenly notices a new face. His eyes meet mine and I read the question in his eyes.

"Foxy's mom got sick again. He's filling in. Boscorelli."  
"Nice to meet you. What can I get you?"

I snicker as I hear Bosco's order, noticing Milo hiding a smile as well. We talked about his lunch in the car, discussing what he would choose. Milo was sure he was going for a French omelet with whole wheat bread, but I just knew that officer Boscorelli was the eggs with bacon type. Again, as always, I was right.

Eyes burn in the back of head and I turn to meet the pair of deep brown eyes that are staring at me. Bosco pouts, shortly, and raises his hand.

"You wanna tell me what this is all about?"

I lick my lips and fold the piece of paper that functions as a napkin.

"'Xcuse me?"  
"This. This so called breakfast. Swersky told me that you needed me. Instead, I'm sitting here, having breakfast?"

Oh, I was definitely liking this guy. He hadn't been around me longer than five minutes and he was already standing up to me. He was a fighter. I like fighting men. And I can't help but to flash him a smile.

"Looey, pass him the file."

I wait a couple of seconds, letting Bosco process the information that first comes to his mind as he reads the thick file and watches the many photographs enclosed in it.

"We've been working on a case that involves a high placed dealer. A heroine dealer. Today, we want to bust his crew and clean up the streets. I can't do that with one of my guys without a partner."  
"So what is this?"

Bosco looks around Mirrie's.

"This is roll call, officer Boscorelli. If you hadn't heard, I do things differently."  
"Oh, I heard. The mighty Jazz Bishop."  
"What did the stories say?"

Milo smirks knowingly. Looey mutters something under his breath.

"That you killed a guy in a fist to fist fight."

The muscles in my jaw tense shortly as I recall that fight. The asshole nearly broke my jaw.

"That you once dismembered a bomb."  
"Not true."  
"That you're reckless-"  
"True."  
"- That you've never lost a guy-"  
"Also true."

Thank God for small mercies.

"- That you hold the highest record of car accidents-"  
"Not really proud of that, the paperwork…"  
"I thought I held that record."  
"Sorry Miles."  
"- That you've slept with your supervisor of the F.B.I."  
"My supervisor is female."

How do people come up with these stories?

"- That you're arrogant, way too witty and have written a book about smartass replies."  
"A book?"  
"I made that one up."

I smirk.

"I like you."

He looks. I know. Mutual attraction. Gotta love the sub.


End file.
